The Stars Are All Lonely
by TheVenturer
Summary: Sherlock is in hiding, cut off almost entirely from mankind, in an attempt to keep safe from criminal superpowers. This isolation is beginning to cripple the genius' mind and, on a whim, Mycroft brings Sherlock the one thing neither man ever expected to give a lonely Holmes salvation; a heart -Based off Twilight Zone episode "The Lonely" -Sherlock AU; SciFi ish ; Eventual Johnlock-
1. Red and Orange Hues

_**A/N: **__Welcome to another story! I'm getting inspiration all over the place lately, and this one has become very close to my heart as I write it. Around 4-5 chapters for this!_

_Based off the basic premise of the episode "The Lonely," from the American television show The Twilight Zone (WONDERFUL series, readers. Netflix has it all!), this is about Sherlock being isolated on a moon, forced to hide out from evil powers by his brother. When Mycroft brings him a suspiciously large case and is ambiguous as to its contents, Sherlock is surprised to find what lies inside. How it affects him in the months to come is all the more a surprise._

_Please enjoy, and feel free to review!_

_**Warning: **__This is T – FOR NOW! Later it will be rated as M; as usual I will let you know when._

_**Disclaimer: **__This disclaimer applies to this and all future chapters; I do not, sadly, own Sherlock Holmes, the television show Sherlock which these characters are modeled after, nor the episode of the Twilight Zone which this general plot is taken from. All love and admiration go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the brilliant Rod Serling._

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><p>I.<p>

If you were to stand in the middle of a desert, millions of miles from anything even remotely resembling civilization, you would know what living on the sixth moon of Noelan was like.

It was dry and almost uninhabitable, all weeds and rock formations looming over dusty landscape. Every so often, one might find a drying flower, trying desperately to poke a head up from the soil beneath the sand. It pushed from seed to root to bud, through layers of ancient turf and dirt, only to have the moisture sucked away by wave upon wave of oppressive sunlight.

Though hot and uncomfortable, the barely-moon-more-asteroid rock was, scientifically speaking, inhabitable. Oxygen was abundant and almost mirrored that of Earths, as was the gravity. Days lasted longer and nights were only ten degrees colder than the day, but if one wasn't already off put by the lack of physical life, it would have been like living in the deep West of America.

If you were to stand on the southeastern side of the sixth moon of Noelan, you would encounter the only tangible form of life – the only man to ever spend more than a day living there.

He lived in a modest house built to be comfortable but not oppressive. The comforts of a modern life were there; central cooling for the hottest of days, a shower, king sized bed, lavatory and cooking amenities. There was internet access for five hours a day, during the night – a luxury the man never took for granted. Through a special type of cellular device not yet available – and indeed never would be – to the general public allowed the man to both call and text anyone he wished back on Earth.

The phone was barely touched at all, only ever in response.

For six long months the man had lived on this desolate mass of sediment and dust, waiting for the time when he could finally go home; back to London, to the cool nights and the bright days, to the blue and green… he never realized how abstractly colored the Earth was till he went to live somewhere entirely composed of oranges, browns and reds. Monochromatic living was terribly boring.

Truly, he was achingly bored. Case files he was given were solved within a month, games and puzzles brought over in the second month, and by that third month when the new shipment of supplies came and he had twenty minutes – time he would never admit kept him sane – of civilization to talk to his brother and the two moronic but capable pilots he brought with him. He was relayed new information on nearly every subject he could think to ask about; science, technology, and especially crime. It seemed the world became more and more interesting every week he was away, though his brother was ready to tell him the world was as dull and monotonous as ever.

He just wanted to go back, if only to be bored in his own flat, to chat with Mrs. Hudson, to fix whatever blunder the Yard created next.

Sherlock wanted to go back.

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><p>It was day one-hundred and fifty-seven when the ship finally came; Sherlock walked out the door, careful to hold his excitement in. He didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing he was actually looking <em>forward <em>to his visits.

As the tall auburn haired man approached, his air-suit as straight and dignified as any three-piece, he flashed a cordial smile to his little brother. "Hello there, Sherlock. Enjoying your isolation? I see you've lost half a stone and gained quite a bit more hair."

"And obviously what I've lost in weight, you've seen fit to gain. And your head is looking a bit thin these days, brother mine. Careful, you may burn."

Mycroft smiled turned into a sneer and he walked past Sherlock, into the house. The two pilots carrying the supplies gave Sherlock blank stares as they unloaded crates filled with water, food, various books and files, as well as a large box Sherlock couldn't distinguish, stamped in red, "THIS SIDE UP".

The dark haired man turned and swiftly walked into the house to find his brother looking over a recent experiment Sherlock had been preforming on the carcass of a cactus plant; a small remnant of life he'd found under a gorge.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room and spoke swiftly and without emotion. "Any progress catching him?"

Mycroft looked up. "No, unfortunately his network was much larger than anticipated. It is going to take three more months at least," the elder Holmes looked thoughtfully at the lifeless body on the table. "I apologize for this Sherlock; we're doing all we can."

"Well do it faster, damn it!" the exclamation was out before Sherlock could stop it, the evidence of his tormenting loneliness like a neon sign flashing on every syllable.

"I'll try, brother dear," Mycroft sighed. Looking out the window, he turned to his brother. Three day-old clothes, hasn't showered in at least that amount of time, eats sparingly… his brother was wasting away out here in this desolation.

But it couldn't be helped, the older man thought. It had to be done, to save his brother's life.

With a well-connected and well-protected madman after Sherlock in a desperate attempt at revenge, Mycroft had to take desperate measures in response. Science had come a long way in the 22nd century, both prolonging life and, though the public had no knowledge of it, giving humans the ability to live on distant moons or asteroids. This had been the absolute safest measure, even overkill.

Sherlock gave an indignant huff and sat in his hard leather chair.

"I can't stay the usual thirty minutes, Sherlock. Our layover has only been approved for," Mycroft checked his watch. "Twenty more minutes."

There was a moment of panic in the younger Holmes' eyes. Then, as quick as it had flashed, it was gone. "Your loss. It's marvelous here," Sherlock said dryly.

"Yes, well… we'll see," Mycroft studied his brother for a moment, watching as Sherlock stared blankly out the window. "Brother, I've brought something for you. No, certainly not a corpse to experiment on," he said swiftly as Sherlock perked up. "No. I've brought you something…" Mycroft spoke carefully, considering each word. "I'm not entirely sure if it will help you, in fact balance of probability is in favor of it making your stay here worse. But often you… surprise me."

Sherlock responded only with a blank stare. Mycroft sighed, drumming his fingers over the files he held in his hand.

"These documents are cold cases, I've picked them myself so they should keep you occupied at least a few days each," Mycroft smirked. "Barely took me an hour each."

Sherlock gave a humorless smile, then looked at the window as the two pilots as they brought the last of the supplies, then left them next to the large crate with the red stamps. Carefully considering the possibilities, Sherlock asked, "Mycroft. What's in the crate?"

Hazel-green eyes looked from out the window back to the younger man with the icy blue gaze and unruly dark hair. _Salvation, perhaps_, Mycroft thought. "I'm not entirely sure. You'll have to tell me when you know."


	2. Ring Like Silver

_**A/N: **__Thank you for all the favorites, follows and reviews! Please feel free to leave more! This is my first endeavor into the land of science fiction, so I'd love any encouragement or criticism I can get!_

_Thanks to __Cici98__, and __Arty Diane__ for their support and reviews! _

_To reply to Arty, YES it will end happily… but not before taking a quick side-trip through feelingsville!_

_Please enjoy!_

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><p>II.<p>

There was nothing on the outside to hint at the contents, no stains or air-holes, no sounds at all. Whatever was contained was almost positively not living. That still left so many possibilities… Sherlock looked up at the slowly darkening sky.

With a huff of frustration, he turned to go back into the house.

He needed his crowbar.

* * *

><p>By the year 2027, technology had made great leaps and bounds. Some public, though more often governments hoarded the advances for themselves, either too untrusting of the public or simply too greedy to share.<p>

Sherlock was well aware of most and even had had them readily available to him – or, rather, Mycroft did and Sherlock often took what he wanted. Mobiles which could call individuals tens of light-years away from Earth itself, satellites or rockets - or even, in Sherlock's case, a moon – and whatnot were an invention heavily relied upon by the detective. Hover-boards were all the rage among young people, though Sherlock found it extremely impractical and juvenile. The solar-powered computer with multitudinous capabilities also came in handy, especially here where the sun beat down like a magnifying glass over an ant.

Those were changes Sherlock enjoyed and took advantage of. Even here, he had both his laptop and his phone, but as he looked down into the box, his mind, modern as it was, went blank.

Inside the box was a man.

He was no real description other than normal for the look of him, though the situation itself, even to Sherlock, was certainly anything but. The small, sleeping man was lying sideways inside of the box, almost peaceful looking, knees compactly drawn up and his small mouth slightly parted. Sherlock could see he wasn't breathing, though really there had been no way to before – no air-holes in the box.

Sherlock's starving mind disregarded the incredible unlikelihood of the situation in favor of deduction.

The man in the box was tanned but in the natural sense of the word, certainly not bathing with oils and definitely not lying in a disgusting booth. His hair was long enough to fan out over his forehead, but still short; military cut, most likely. The color was an ashen-grey, darker in the shadow of the crate, and only accented weathered yet strong-looking face. As his heart began to beat at an alarming rate, Sherlock took the booklet taped to the cover of the crate and opened it hastily, taking a cautious few steps backwards.

_Dear Sherlock_

_For once, brother, I have most likely succeeded on surprising you. The contents of the crate are highly classified, not yet known to exist in the minds of many of my colleagues. This unit has been tested rigorously, and will survive and thrive in the environment you're currently living in. It will tell you any specifics you need to know, and there is a small instructions manual attached, written by the creator, if you should need it. It is one of a kind and will never be reproduced, so grant yourself lucky. You're welcome to experiment on it, though I am not entirely sure it would allow you to. _

_This is a perfect human android in everything but brain – with the memories and personality of the human it's modeled after built in to an unlimited memory drive. It is self-aware, and will tell you its name once activated. It knows what it is, will not deny it, but it also holds the memories of another being. This concept is unprecedented; I cannot give you any advice further than to take caution. It will automatically wake when enough oxygen has been sifted through its lungs._

_It should at least serve as an interesting companion, if not as an apology for the extensive amount of time our mission on Earth is continuing to take. You'll be back in London as soon as it is safe._

_Do try not to break it, and do try to be civil to it, even if it is inhuman._

_Regards,_

_M. Holmes._

Just as Sherlock put the letter down, he heard movement coming from inside of the box. Taking an instinctive step backwards, Sherlock kept his distance as the man – android, robot, _it_, whatever – stood up.

He was not as tall as Sherlock, though that was already obvious due to the size of the crate, looking as though he'd reach at least the detectives shoulders. The plain white t-shirt was tight enough to give the hint of muscle, but loose enough to be descent. The disgustingly colored green pants were military-issue, the same Sherlock was given –and refused to wear.

The strong jaw lifted and turned, surveying the landscape, patches of stubble reflecting almost as blond as his hair now gleamed. As the face turned and deep blue eyes finally looked at Sherlock, the detective took another step backwards. Whether it was the startling feeling in the pit of his stomach or sheer instinct, he was no longer sure.

The blond sighed, looking down and hopping out of the box. Sherlock's mind recovered enough to observe a slight limp, the right-handed preference, shoulder wound and hand tremor. Approaching cautiously, he – _it_ – stopped a few feet away from Sherlock.

"You ever seen one of me before?" it asked, the accent almost calming Sherlock as he realized it sounded like home. It wasn't exactly friendly, but certainly not threatening. It was… interesting.

The dark curls swished as Sherlock shook his head no.

"Right," it pursed its lips and looked back at the house, then back at Sherlock. The expression was neutral, not threatening though not entirely open either. "Well, my name is Watson. I'm going to go in and use the loo, so you collect yourself and I'll be in there when you're ready, yeah?"

When Sherlock didn't respond, simply staring, Watson nodded stiffly and turned, walking towards the house, Sherlock continued to stand there, watching him walk away. He only began to pace, wondering what the hell had just occurred, why he felt something – nerves? – buzzing in his chest, and whether or not the machine could even _use_ the bathroom…

Sherlock didn't start walking back to the house, instruction manual clenched in his fist, until he heard the porch door slam shut.


	3. Polished Yellow

_**A/N: **__I'm so sorry this has taken so long to update, real life has gotten in the way of everything lately and my muse has decided to take an extensive holiday. I decided to drag her back, kicking and screaming, to finish this last night, so I hope it turned out OK!_

_A quick note__: Because this is an AU set in the future, I have changed John's back-story to include a vague war in the 'Middle East,' rather than specifically Afghanistan. I'm sure we can all agree that the general hope is the violence there specifically (and everywhere, though unlikely) will be through by the time 2027 hits. This being said, Watson is a replica of John right out of the war – we can assume the read John Watson is still on Earth, all mopey and bored._

_In other news I have a brief little message: I wanted to let you all know I __do__ have a professional writing blog – feel free to look on my account profile for the link! I recently won a Gold Key from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for one of my memoir/personal essay pieces, which is truly an honor._

_Anywho, on with the show! Please feel free to review, as I'd love to know how I'm doing, and how you like it! Thanks to all who have already, and I hope this work lives up to the expectations of all who have read my previous works :)_

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><p>III.<p>

Sherlock wandered into the house and, looking at the closed bathroom door cautiously, began to pace the living room.

The scientist within him was reeling with excitement, the stored energy of the past few months bubbling up and nearly bursting through. A scorching longing to dissect and catalogue, to simply feed this curiosity which came as naturally to him as breathing, was nearly overwhelming. This thing, Watson, was something interesting and fascinating; those two words didn't cross paths with Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis. Watson was something _new_.

Another part of the man, the part he spent years dousing, the heart of him, wanted nearly the same thing. He wanted to take this man, android, humanoid, whatever apart… but perhaps not in entirely the same manner.

Feelings… feelings were at the epicenter of every fault, every misstep.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't afford missteps.

As the door to the bathroom opened, Watson stepped out with both a fresher face and a steel cane. It looked to be retractable, and it didn't take a genius to determine it must have been left inside a pocket. Questions whirled around Sherlock's mind – why does a robot have a limp? Do you know you aren't organic? Do you know where you are, who I am? Do –

"Do you have a kettle?"

Sherlock blinked away the haze of thought and tried to focus on that one voice. It sounded so… normal, coming from something that was obviously anything but. The blond was looked on expectantly. Taking another moment, Sherlock responded only with a tilt of the head, towards the newly stocked kitchen.

Watson waited another second for any other kind of response than the vague gesture, and when none came he simply nodded. With a look around Sherlock to the two arm chairs within the living room, straightened his back a bit. "Well, you have a seat if you like and I'll get us some tea."

With a quizzical tip of his head, Sherlock watched the man leave the room. He listened to the opening and closing of wooden cupboards, the clanging of metal on metal as the bottom of the pot hit the stove-top. It was almost homey, reminding him of Mrs. Hudson's constant doting and fussing. Disposing himself into the leather chair, he waited quietly until the smell of flavored water permeated the air.

There was a call of, "do you take anything in it?" to which Sherlock responded his usual "two sugars," completely on reflex.

He realized a second later those were the first words he'd said to Watson. Later he'd remember that and laugh, but for now he simply frowned. He tried to grasp onto one singular thought, but they were all scattered about in the morning light coming through the windows, like the ever-present dust and sand dancing in the sun-beams.

After a bit more clatter and clang, Watson came into the room carrying two mugs, striped black and white. When he offered one to Sherlock, it was only a mere millisecond of hesitation before the detective took the cup. Their hands brushed briefly and the touch was so unremarkable – no spark or feeling of electricity - it startled the man inside the scientist.

Looking to the other chair – a bulky red thing with a small Union Jack pillow resting at the back – Watson took a seat and, with a sigh, settled back into the plush cushion. Sipping his tea, the blond gave a small chuckle as Sherlock suspiciously sniffed his own and inspected it thoroughly. "I'm not going to poison you, God. What good would that do either of us?"

"Precautions…" Sherlock responded, in a tone that hinted at the 'obviously'. After finding the tea perfectly normal, he took a sip. Finding it perfectly fine – quite good actually – he put it down and leant back in his chair. Not comfortably as Watson had, but imperiously. His eyes took in the profile of the man in front him yet again, finding nothing different than the other four or five times before.

"So," Watson began after a few silent heartbeats, "You've got questions."

"Yes…" Sherlock's fingers steepled in front of him and he ran the tips over his lips before settling into the thing he knew best: investigation. "You do know who you are."

Watson knew it wasn't a question, but he responded as such, more to the unasked 'what you are' than anything else. "Yes I do. I'm the first and only unit of synthetic humanoid modeled after donor 129, as requested by him. I have been informed that, while I share his first name, I am not to divulge it for privacy purposes. I know both who I am and what I am, so you've not to worry about all that sticky self-realizations business."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock nodded. "And where did this donor 129 suffer a trauma wound?"

"Mid-E," Watson replied, after a slight start. Of course he was referring to the nearly seven yearlong series of conflicts which were still, as far as Sherlock knew, wreaking havoc among the Middle Eastern territories of the world. "How did you-"

"Don't be trivial. You know who you are and you have the memories from this donor, so you carry his injuries. The limp is psychosomatic, which suggests trauma. It's as obvious as the intermittent tremor in your hand and the shoulder-wound; the ex-military stature is plain as day; the doctor is practically written all over you."

Watson shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Sherlock watched as the light blond hairs flashed gold in the sun. An uncomfortable shiver ran through his spine as he wondered what they felt like. Would it be soft or tough and synthetic? Were the fibers made out of the same keratin as his own?

The overwhelming need to touch and feel was only broken when Watson cleared his throat. Sherlock blew out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"So, you know about me. Or most of me," the shorter man started. "Who're you? And for that matter, where are we? Arizona?"

Brows drawn down in confusion, Sherlock asked, "You weren't briefed, given any information?" Watson shook his head in response. "My name is…" Sherlock took a moment before continuing, "Sherlock. We're not on Earth, though the American South is not a terrible guess based on climate and landscape. We're on a moon, Noelan. I'm -" he resisted the urge to say _trapped_, "-waiting for my idiot brother to deal with a problem back on Earth before I am safe to return home."

Watson narrowed his eyes briefly before taking a deep breath. He was silent for a few moments, the thumb resting on his tea mug making circles around the ceramic surface. Sherlock wondered what his fingerprint looked like, what it felt like. Motionlessly, he pushed the impulse into his mental rubbish bin. When it wouldn't delete – sparking more feelings of an uncharacteristically human curiosity – Sherlock tossed it into a desk drawer marked 'Watson' and closed it shut. He was just trying to mentally lock the drawer permanently when the man spoke quietly.

"So," Watson began. Sherlock looked up swiftly, making eye contact and noticing, not for the first time, the murky blueness of those eyes. Watson went silent, looked back at Sherlock a moment before averting his eyes down to his mug.

"So," he tried again, each word punctuated and precise. "Why am I here?"

Sherlock took a moment to study the man – eighth time – as the sunlight began to light the carpeted floor. There was nothing severe about the man. He was all soft edges and quiet footsteps. There was a restlessness in his eyes and a tilt in his jaw that made him look dangerously strong at times, at the right angle, but Sherlock was not dim nor naive enough to accept that as anything more than one/sixteenth – even one/thiry-second – of the man in front of him. Many parts made up the whole; that was obvious.

And Sherlock had an uncomfortable feeling of longing to find them all.

Many moments passed before the detective replied. When he did, his voice was clear and his words concise. He felt anything but.

"I'm not sure."

* * *

><p>They had sat in silence, finishing their teas in an atmosphere of near domesticity, until the sun was high and the bottoms of their mugs emptied.<p>

Watson excused himself to retrieve his belongings from his crate, and when he returned Sherlock civilly lead him to the extra bedroom on the second floor of the building. It had its own bathroom and study, as did the first floor. Sherlock never saw the point of running up and down the stairs when everything he needed was readily available on the first floor, so these extra rooms were barely used.

Not bothering to give a dramatic tour, Sherlock pointed out the extra bedding material on the top shelf of the closet, and padded quickly out of the room to leave his unexpected new house-mate alone.

He returned to his own room, picking up his phone and sitting at the edge of his bed. Even at the disgusting thought of actually communicating with his brother, it could not be avoided.

_Why did you leave that crate here? –SH_

_For companionship, perhaps? A distraction? – MH_

_From what? There is nothing to be done in this desert –SH_

_That's the problem –MH_

Sherlock ignored the truth behind Mycroft's statement. Of course, Watson was meant to be a distraction from the utter nothingness of Sherlock's current existence. That much was obvious, but –

_Why him? Why not leave me chemicals, some kind of brain work? –SH_

_You know why. Cannot have you creating some new form of stimulant, or obliterating your only shelter –MH_

_Think of it as an experiment. A different form of "brain work" –MH_

_Git –SH_

_Play nice, brother dear –MH_

Just as Sherlock was about to snidely ask after Mycroft's diet, he heard the quiet creaking of the wooden stair-case. Standing, Sherlock wondered at how he should proceed.

It was obvious Watson was there as some sort of mental relief to the void of stimulus available here. But, truthfully, human interaction was not something Sherlock found himself to excel at. Yes, he could play at emotions; convince others a façade was real. Crying on command was easy, but small-talk was tedious and loathsome. Still, he supposed he couldn't hide in his room forever.

Opening the door he could see straight down the hallway into the living room and as he walked down, he caught a glimpse of a dark grey t-shirt and jeans. Turning into the kitchen, Sherlock stood in the archway and watched as a casually dressed Watson perused the heavily stocked bookshelves. Most were memorized; others contained excerpts or chapters important to either the work or of scientific merit. Sherlock didn't care to admit that some – a few – were kept out of mere sentiment.

When Watson, t-shirt pulled upwards to reveal a mere sliver of skin at his back, leant over to inspect the bottom most shelves, Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly.

"Oh, sorry," the blond stood and straightened, leaning on his cane minutely before seeming to unconsciously forget it completely. "I didn't mean to intrude I just… got bored I suppose." There was an attempt at a friendly smile. "Don't suppose you have anything fictional, do you?"

Sherlock kept his expression blank but his voice held a tinge of amusement. "First case, Fourth shelf down," and, with a nod, Watson moved as directed.

Many of the novels were gifts or joke-presents accumulated over the years from family members, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, or – rarely – his parents. Sherlock watched as Watson ran those short fingers over covers, taking in the classics, ranging from Homer to Orwell, before selecting a smaller book with a worn-green cover and musty pages. _Winnie-the-Pooh_, Sherlock's mind clarified, bringing up automatically images of youth and the short period of time when his brother was something other than an inconvenience, when he was five-years old and sick with flu and Mycroft sat vigilantly, reading that book aloud.

The images made Sherlock uncomfortable, and instead he focused on the small smiling playing on Watson's lips. Not simply polite this time but genuine, making the weathered face look ten years younger. That uncomfortable turning in Sherlock's stomach returned and he ignored it vehemently. He watched as the blond ran his fingers over the page was reading before thumbing the corner and turning it.

"Can you actually feel that?" He asked, without thinking about the question first.

Looking up, Watson's smile faded a bit, and it fell out of his eyes. The politeness was back, that guarded look locked in place again. "Yes, I can feel that. The pages as well as the spine, the covers, the sun and the floors. I can feel it all, as well as emotions, hunger, thirst, etc. Just the same as you." He waited for a response and when one didn't come, he closed the book and deposited it onto the small table next to the large red chair – already designated for him. "Speaking of hunger," he continued, "I'm starved. Got anything in?"

He walked past Sherlock into the heart of the kitchen, the silver-blue eyes following his movements. Sherlock felt the slight change in air-flow as the shorter man walked past, and he ran his hand through his hair in exasperation. Stupid, stupid question.

Watson got to the fridge and opened it, inspecting the sparse remnants of life inside. "Well, there isn't a lot…"

"I don't generally eat a lot. Most is frozen, in any case."

"Hmm," Watson's face took on a disgusted expression as he lifted out a jar of pickling eyes. "Uhm, Sherlock…"

"Don't touch those, they're for an experiment," In a flurry of dressing gown and long-limbs, Sherlock was at the refrigerator and taking the jar. His fingers brushed against Watson's as they both tried to deposit the eyeballs back onto the shelf. This time, there was a tingle which raced through Sherlock's being. It was as though he had just yawned deeply and he experienced a full-body shiver. As if electrocuted, he swiftly took his hand away and took a step back. Watson, who had been ready with an apology, stood mutely staring before he seemed to collect himself with some effort, closing the large aluminum door.

Stiffly, he turned to the cupboards to take out one can of stew, before looking back over his shoulder. "You want something to eat?"

"No," Sherlock replied, and Watson shrugged in indifference.

As the blond began to make his own food, Sherlock stared for a few minutes longer. He tried to ignore the almost graceful way Watson's fingers held the spoon to stir the food in the pot, tried to ignore the attractive way the heat from the stove made the tanned cheeks bloom with red. When ignoring these minute details became impossible and the tingling in his spine had returned, Sherlock went into the living room and lay down on the settee resting on the wall opposite to the television.

It was a few minutes until Sherlock's sleep-hungry mind began to stutter and slow, and the last things he remembered before sleep overtook him were the smells of boiling meat and vegetables, and the low humming of some Irish love song.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__For any curious readers, the Irish love song I imagine Watson humming is The Pogues with Love You Till the End. Adore that song. Have a listen._

_Until next time, sleep well, eat well, and be merry :)_


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